Le Cadeau
by intagliosfera
Summary: Where did Erik learn harmony and composition? This is the story of a young man...and his teacher. A love story, but not what one might think. COMPLETE! This story is registered with the WGAw.
1. Chapter 1

Where did Erik learn harmony and composition? This is the story of a young man...and his teacher. This story is registered with the WGAw.

Le Cadeau

Chapter 1

Paris, January 1862

The morning light is weak and grey, although it is three hours past dawn. Workmen hustle into a stately home in the _16th Arondissment_; painters, mortarers and carpenters have all converged under the direction of a master builder to renovate this fading mansion and restore it to _au courant_ comfort.

The main salon looks out upon the fashionable street below. The room has an eerie appearance, for all the furniture is draped with heavy canvas cloth to protect it from the repairs going on. A young stonemason, not yet twenty years of age, enters with his tools.

He has been given the task of rebuilding the fireplace-it's a shambles. He's thin, terribly thin, but all wiry muscle and huge spidery hands. The young stonemason knows what he's doing. The master builder can trust him to work unsupervised. He is the sort of worker the master builder likes best--show him something once and he can do it perfectly. He prefers working alone. His solitary focus unnerves the other laborers. The stonemason ducks inside the hearth. A tall pile of limestone tiles waits for his expert application.

The young stonemason works steadily to re-line the flue. He sings as he works. It's a hauntingly beautiful sound that travels up the flue and is amplified by the acoustics of the splendid house. Unaware, the tall young man continues to sing as he places the limestone tiles within the flue's cavity.

He breaks from his work to look around the salon. The chamber is simple, elegant in its restraint. It is a beautiful room, and it meets the young mason's practiced eye with approval. The stonemason is drawn to a large piece of furniture in the center of the room. He pulls back the heavy protective cloth to reveal an ebony piano.

He opens the piano's cover and worshipfully runs his hands over the keyboard. Silently, he gently fingers the keys, pressing them so softly that they do not resonate. With greater confidence, he moves over the keyboard, remembering a melody clearly within his mind, and connecting with the piano before him. His concentration deepens and the chords begin to sound—

"What are you doing?"

The question rifles through the air. The stonemason jumps away from the piano and casts his eyes downward as a young woman strides into the room. The stonemason removes his cap in a gesture of respect.

"I meant no harm, Mademoiselle. I only wished to--"

"You're holding your hands all wrong. That's a piano, not a pipe organ."

"I'll return to my job now, Mademoiselle." The young stonemason backs away from the piano and kneels again inside the massive hearth. The young woman grabs the sheets from two chairs and tosses them to the floor. She begins to drag one chair toward the piano, and then stops.

"Well, aren't you going to help me?" she snaps with an air of exasperation.

The stonemason peers out from beneath the mantelpiece. With alacrity, he takes the chair from the lady and tucks it under his arm. The woman points to the piano. The stonemason places the chair at the keyboard, then takes the other chair and places it next to the first. The young woman motions for the stonemason to sit at the keyboard. She gathers her hoop skirt with care as she alights beside him.

As her eyes become accustomed to the dim light in the salon, the young woman notices that the stonemason wears a mask over his face.

"Is that to protect you from the masonry dust?" she softly inquires.

"No, Mademoiselle. It is to protect people like you." The young man's fingers caress the ivory keys almost involuntarily.

"Protect me from what?"

"The burden of my ugliness."

The young woman looks directly at the stonemason for a long interval. He bears her gaze patiently, keeping his eyes on the keyboard as she observes him. She is not a conventional beauty, but her hair has lovely chestnut waves, and her high cheekbones and slightly up-tilted eyes hint at a heritage that is more than the usual French bourgeois. Satisfied, she puts a hand on the piano.

"What do you know about music?" she asks. The corners of the stonemason's mouth curl up in a gentle smile.

"I know that I love it, Mademoiselle. I hear music inside my head all day long."

The young woman begins to play a simple melody with one hand. She nods to the stonemason.

"Sing that back to me," she instructs. The stonemason sings the melody to her in perfect tune and rhythm.

"Can you play it on the keyboard for me?" she requests. The young man places his long fingers on the keys and tinkles the little song with complete accuracy. He even manages to supply a harmony for the concluding phrases.

"You have a good memory. Better than mine," she comments. She pauses for a moment and regards the stonemason in silence. The young mason becomes uncomfortable and looks back at the fireplace.

"Mademoiselle, I should return to my task. The master of this house will be displeased with me if I do not--"

"The master of the house is my husband. I think he will be quite pleased that I have made a friend who loves music. Do you know how to read?"

"Yes, I do." The stonemason is now completely confused.

The young woman gets up from her chair and goes to another draped piece of furniture. She pulls up the canvas and opens a cabinet, rummages inside and pulls out two battered portfolios. Opening one of the binders, the woman places a piece of sheet music on the piano.

"Can you read music too?" she gently asks. The stonemason looks at the pattern of lines, dots and squiggles covering the paper.

"No, Madame. I can see that it is titled 'Canzone,' which means 'song' in Italian, and I can read the word 'dolce'—'sweet.' But the rest is unknown to me."

"You are intelligent. How old are you, anyway?" The young woman's eyes narrow a little as she tries to estimate the young stonemason's age.

"I believe I am nineteen years old, Madame." He draws himself up. Nineteen is after all, a man's age. A young man, true, but still a man.

"Would you like to learn how to read music?"

"Why would you bother to teach a poor laborer?"

The young woman turns away from the piano. "Do you want to, or not?"

"Yes, Madame. But I still do not understand."

The young woman paces around the salon. She pauses by the immense bay window that looks out over the _Tuileries_ Palace and gardens. "Perhaps it pleases me to have a challenge. Perhaps I heard your singing and it was so beautiful, it went straight into my heart," she whispers.

"Perhaps it is because I cannot stand being the only person in this house who loves music!" She gives a little cry and clasps her hand over her mouth as she turns away from the stonemason. Her shoulders shake a little, and she lets out a deep sigh. When she turns back, there are unshed tears glittering in her eyes.

"Do you live with your family?" An unspoken plea for communion beams from her eyes.

"No, Madame. I have no family."

"Where do you stay?"

The stonemason does not answer. He is ashamed to admit that he has been taking refuge from the winter cold in churches, under bridges, and even in the tunnels beneath Paris. Most landlords do not take kindly to renting rooms to masked men, even those with ready money. The woman discerns his discomfort and completes her thought.

"We have rooms over the stables. I will introduce you to Monsieur Guerin and he will assign you one. You can perform your work during the day, but you shall meet with me for an hour after my breakfast and an hour before dinner. After dinner, you shall practice for an hour unless we have company. Is this satisfactory to you?"

The young man is completely dumfounded. He has just been offered more than he could ever dream of, and he honestly has no idea why. Surely there will be some _quid pro quo_, but he decides that he will face it when the time comes.

The young woman picks up a watch that dangles from the chatelaine around her waist. She snorts a little, and then motions for the stonemason to follow her.

"It's time for me to meet with Madame Portager to confirm tonight's menu. Stay on her good side or you'll starve to death. What are you called, Monsieur Mason?"

"Erik, Madame."

"Erik what?"

"Just Erik. That is all the name I have." The shame begins to wash over the young man as it has so many times before.

"That's fixable. It took a lot of money for me to get my name. In our lessons, you may call me Blandine, but the rest of the time I am Mme. Ollivier."

Blandine opens the salon door and waves at Erik impatiently. In a daze, the young masked man follows her, his mind a tangle of melodies, keyboards, sheet music and hope. Blessed, unfamiliar hope.


	2. Chapter 2

Le Cadeau Chapter 2

March 1862

The pearly light of early spring glows with a blue luster this morning. As music makes the finely detailed walls of the salon vibrate, a small fire merrily crackles counterpoint in the hearth. A polyphonic harmony from Bach's Anna Magdalena Notebook flows from the piano with confidence. Blandine pauses to hear Erik play a phrase over – slowly – and try a different harmonization.

"You think like a composer," she interjects. Erik barely looks up from the music as Blandine settles in on her chair.

"Are you feeling a little better this morning?" he inquires as he subtly sways in time with the music.

"The worst of the nausea has passed, but it still finds me when I open my eyes."

"Your color has returned, Mme. Blandine. I am happy to see it." Erik sounds the concluding phrases of the piece and turns to welcome Blandine fully.

"Of course you are happy to see me. If I was sick, I wouldn't be able to give you this." She hands the young man a new portfolio of Mozart piano works. He takes it from her, holding it reverently in his hands like a rare treasure.

"Thank you. I wanted these when the new shipment came in at the music shop, but they sold out so quickly."

Blandine observes the way Erik gently turns the pages, one by one. He can read the music notation now without difficulty. _It's as though he was simply remembering it all_, she thinks with amazement. She has never heard of someone progressing so rapidly.

"Erik, let us continue working. Please turn to number four. Sight sing the bass line. Begin on 'Mi'." Blandine is hesitant to start Erik with such a difficult task first thing, but she is anxious to test his progress.

The young stonemason takes a breath. He notes that the bass line begins on 'Do' – a C – and Blandine is asking him to both sight-read and transpose up a third. Erik counts out a measure of rhythm and begins.

"Mi – 'Re' – 'Fa' – 'So' – 'Fa' -" He flawlessly sings the bass line, using the solfeggio syllables as Blandine taught him to do. When Erik gets to the bottom of the page, he looks up at his stunned teacher.

"Shall I continue?"

Blandine shakes her head in astonishment. "You have achieved four years of conservatory training in two months. Extraordinary."

Blandine holds out her hands to take the portfolio back. Erik reluctantly returns the Mozart. "Don't worry," she teases, "I'm not taking it away from you for good. I must ask you a few things, that is all."

Erik gets up from the piano. _So it has come_, he thinks with dread. _She wishes to find out my past, my origins. Why I have no home. She will ask to see my face! _"How can I tell you such a dismal history as mine, Madame, especially in your delicate condition?" he utters with despair.

"History of what, Erik? You misunderstand me. I wish to know how you plan to spend Easter." Blandine sets the Mozart down by her chair with an air of calm expectancy.

Erik turns back to the seated young woman. The tension drains from his body. "I – I have no special arrangements, Madame."

"If you like, I would be so delighted for you to join us for Easter supper. My father will be joining us, as will my sister Cosima and her husband. We dine in the Hungarian fashion, to please my father, and then he will play for us. I am certain they will enjoy your company."

Erik begins to speak, then stops himself. Blandine sees his hesitation. "What is it, Erik?"

"Don't you think your family will be put off by…by this?" as he points to his mask. "Your husband was ready to toss me off the property the moment he saw me."

"Oh, Emile merely has a hard time adjusting to anything new. That's why he's so busy with the government—he hates change." Blandine gives a rueful laugh. "I assure you, you will be quite normal compared with my family."

Erik goes quite still for a moment. He lowers his eyes in shame. Softly, he begins, "I don't know how to eat with refined people. I was never taught. I will embarrass you with my ignorant ways, Blandine."

Blandine rises from her chair and joins Erik at the picture window. They look out upon the busy street, filled with broughams and phaetons, as well as smartly dressed citizens embarking upon another day.

"Sometimes, I envy you your mask, Erik," Blandine utters in a low voice. "I do not envy what lies beneath it—I know you conceal some terrible mark or injury—but I envy the protection it affords you from prying eyes and ignorant stares."

She continues, heedless of the incredulous look Erik is giving her. "My father never married my mother. The great romance! The reckless lovers eloping to fulfill their dreams! It wasn't enough that my father was a lodestone for the newspapers and magazines. My mother seemed compelled to write one penny-dreadful novel after another. Everywhere I have gone, the whole of my life, people have pointed at me 'There goes the virtuoso's love child! Do you think she inherited his wicked ways?' It never stops!"

Blandine places a hand to the curve of her belly that is just beginning to swell. "I am a married woman, honest and respectable, but I tell you this, Erik. I am beyond false, petty embarrassment."

Erik turns to Blandine in time to see her stagger a little. She is pale and the skin under her eyes has a bruised appearance. As she collapses, Erik grabs her before she hits the floor. His strong arms enfold her as he lays her on one of the canvas-draped divans. Erik carefully positions a pillow under her legs to allow more blood to flow to Blandine's head.

The young woman is as motionless as an ivory carving in the morning light. Erik kneels by the divan and furiously rubs Blandine's wrists together in an attempt to rouse her. She stays limp. Erik looks toward the door in despair. _Should I call for help_, he thinks. _They will think I harmed her in some way._

A soft whisper escapes Blandine's lips. A name, a single name.

"Daniel," more of a breath than a word.

Blandine's eyes flutter open. She tries to lift her head from the divan, but then allows it to fall back. She looks at Erik questioningly.

"You fainted, Madame. I put you here for your comfort."

Blandine nods. She takes one of Erik's large hands into her own and squeezes it in thanks. As she does, she feels the hard calluses that armor Erik's palm and fingers. She shakes her head. "That does not resemble a musician's hand, Monsieur Mason."

Erik bows his head. "Not yet, Madame Tutor. Not yet." _She is ill, _he remarks to himself _and yet she seeks to put me at ease_. "Did you eat this morning, Blandine?"

"I tried, but it all revulsed me. I sent it back." Again, Blandine struggles to get up from the divan, and again, a wave of nausea overcomes her.

Erik rises and goes to the door. He opens it and barks instructions to a passing maid, then returns to Blandine's side. As he kneels again, she waves him off in protest. "Erik, our time is very short. You must report to the master builder soon. Play something for me. Something you hear in your head."

As Erik settles in at the keyboard, his mind races with all the possibilities. _What to play? Something passionate_…He puts his hands on the keys, but then lifts them away. _No, something soothing. That will be better._

Erik outlines the melody of a folk tune with a gentle, lulling rhythm. "This is a simple _berceuse_ from the region where I was born," he calls out over the music. Erik then adds a lightly resonant bass line under the folk melody. The song now echoes in the salon, yet never becomes strident. The harmonies gradually become more complex, as Erik adds raised seconds and diminished seventh chords to the phrases. The sweetness of the lullaby weaves a spell of comfort and tranquility. Blandine's color returns to her cheeks. She is able to sit up as the final measures of the song die away.

"Is that what you hear in your head, Erik?"

"Sometimes."

A sharp rap on the salon door breaks the reverie. The maid opens the door as she balances a small tray. A toasted baguette shares the salver with a steaming bowl of milk. Erik takes the tray from the girl and shoos her out. Blandine wrinkles her nose as he approaches with the food.

"You must keep something in your stomach. For your sake, and the child's. Here, try this." Erik takes the toasted bread and crumbles it into the bowl. As the pieces absorb the hot milk, Erik stirs the mixture. He spoons up a bite and brings it to Blandine's lips. "Please, Madame, take a little."

Blandine makes a face, but reluctantly opens her mouth. Erik carefully feeds her the milk toast, making certain that she consumes the better part of the bowl. He watches her with trepidation. "Do you think you can keep it down?"

Blandine ponders this as the mantel clock chimes softly. "That is your time, Erik. You must not be late." She slowly gets to her feet and walks with Erik to the door of the salon. "We will work on more of the Mozart tonight. Please give my invitation some thought."

Erik gives a little bow as he takes his leave. _Something else she has taught me,_ he realizes. "Perhaps you will instruct me how to be a proper guest, Madame Ollivier."

"With pleasure, Monsieur Erik."

Erik turns to leave, then thinks of something else. "You said your father would play for us, and that he is a virtuoso. What does he play?"

Blandine give a smile that is equally proud and rueful. "He no longer plays in public. Now he is a composer. But when I was a child, the crowds would stand twenty deep for a chance to hear him play the piano."

Erik is completely taken aback. "There has only been one pianist with that level of fame. It is said he played like the Devil himself. The mad Hungarian, Franz Liszt."

"I like to call him Papa."


	3. Chapter 3

Le Cadeau Chapter 3

"Put the hot milk next to the coffee pot. You may leave, Jeanne Marie."

Jeanne Marie's hands tremble a little as she obeys the command. She bobs a quick courtesy to the salon's sole occupant, and dashes back down the stairs to the kitchen. A smile plays over the visible portion of Erik's face. It is still so new, this business of being obeyed.

The salon has been turned into an impromptu breakfast room. A small table and two chairs rest by the picture window. A sideboard holds an assortment of pastries, fruit, and a coffee service. It has become Erik's habit to rise even earlier than usual, so that he can be sure all will be ready when Blandine joins him in the salon.

By now, the maids have become thoroughly terrified of the tall, slender young man who has grown to be such a presence in the Ollivier household. Although he lives over the stables, his bearing and manners have transformed from those of a humble laborer's to a young gentleman's within a month. There is no easy familiarity with the staff from this masked man–he is rigidly formal, using his new-found education to draw a protective curtain around himself more impenetrable than any mask. Each night, the kerosene lamp in his little room burns into the late hours, as Erik reads one book, then another, from Emile Ollivier's library. Each morning, he seems to materialize out of thin air as he supervises the breakfast offerings for Mme. Ollivier--nothing too heavy or oppressive for her delicate digestion.

Blandine is completely unaware of the upheaval her pupil has caused within the household. Everyone below stairs knows that her pregnancy is causing her discomfort, that her health is precarious. If it pleases Mme. Ollivier to keep a freakish presence in the house, so be it.

Erik hears Blandine's distinctive footfall as she nears the salon. He opens the door for her and makes a bow as she enters. Blandine allows herself a small amount of pride as she observes Erik's feline grace.

"Good morning, Monsieur Mason. Have you eaten?" Blandine allows Erik to seat her at the little table. She has now eschewed corsets and hoop skirts in favor of loosely flowing Persian robes, a fad that is far more comfortable to her expanding figure. Her sharp eyes immediately note the bundle resting on the piano's lid, but she says nothing. Yet.

"Yes, Mme. Blandine. Will you take your hot milk plain today, or would you prefer café au lait?" Erik stands over the young woman attentively. It is important to him that she be especially alert and ready to teach him this morning.

"With chocolate, I think. What do you have on the piano?"

Erik carefully sets the hot drink before Blandine and goes to retrieve his parcel. He holds it tenderly, almost as though it is a baby.

"I found it in the Marche aux Puces. The idiot only wanted five francs for it." Erik unwraps the rough muslin from his prize. An old, battered violin, its cheap varnish orange in some spots and flaking off in others, winks up at Blandine. A weathered violin bow also emerges, in desperate need of a re-hair job and fresh rosin.

"I see. I hope you didn't pay too much for it, Erik…" Blandine takes the instrument and looks it over with a practiced eye. She lightly thumbs the strings and listens at the f-holes.

Blandine gazes at Erik with curiosity. "Can you play it?" He takes the instrument away from her and holds it close to him, almost protectively.

"Let me show you." As Erik tucks the violin under his chin, a faraway look comes into Blandine's eyes. _She seems to be seeing someone else in the room_, he thinks._ Not me_.

Erik strokes the bow over the surface of the violin's strings. His hand curls around the neck of the cheap instrument. The wild chords of a Gypsy melody bounce from the salon's genteel walls and mirrors. Blandine's eyes grow wide as the stirring tune comes pouring forth. Unconsciously, Erik's foot starts to beat time with his playing. His body bends and sways with the rhythm of the piece. The music evokes the images of blazing campfires, flashing ebony eyes, tambourines and whirling dancers.

And just as suddenly, it is over. Again, it is a crisp, early morning in April. Erik removes the violin from his chin and looks to his teacher for her opinion. Blandine is motionless for a moment, and then begins to speak.

"You must decide what you wish to do, Erik. That is a ratty fiddle pawned from a drunkard--"

"No, it's not!"

"I know my instruments! I studied with Cesar Franck for eight years and he made us take apart musical instruments so that we would understand how they were made and how they work. Your violin is barely worthy of the name."

Erik is hardly able to contain his anger. This is not what he expected. "I do not currently enjoy the means to purchase a better one," he snaps defensively.

"My point is," Blandine spits out, "your playing made that nasty fiddle sing like a nightingale. You have a gift for the violin. And for the piano. And for composition." Blandine is satisfied to see the rage drain from her pupil's face, at least the part that she can see.

Erik sits opposite Blandine at the little table and looks out the picture window. He is unaccustomed to compliments and she has just given him three. "Madame, are you telling me I must choose?"

Blandine nods a tight, sad assent. "The violin is a beautiful instrument, as is the piano. Do you wish to be a performer upon the concert stage? With a year of training, I believe you could rival Monsieur Paganini himself. I am not unknown in Paris. Doors would be opened to you."

Erik quickly shakes his head in disagreement. "Madame, I shall never consent to be exhibited like a beast in a cage again. I mean, ever. In the future."

Blandine casts a quizzing eye upon her pupil, but decides to let the question lie. "Then you shall have to make composition the main focus of your studies. It can be a quiet life, or as boisterous and dissolute as you might choose it to be."

The young man pulls his violin close to him. "Are you saying that I must eschew my playing for my writing? Because, truly, I could not do so."

Blandine struggles to her feet. "Not at all. You will have to play for your patrons, no matter what. It helps if you are able to play your compositions well." She makes a little wave of her hand. "Get up. I have to make some corrections. You hold the bow like a savage."

As Erik patiently allows Blandine to mold his long, spidery fingers around the bow — "Thumb curved under, fingers resting on the top. You're pulling it like a German Bürgermeister." — he assimilates the information Blandine has given him.

"Madame, why did--"

"Lift the violin higher–don't hold it straight down from your chin," Blandine commands as she tries to prop Erik's arm into the correct position. "What did you want?"

"Why did you stop your own studies?"

Blandine freezes, her hand caught upon Erik's sleeve. In a low voice, she responds, "It was not my choice. My father did not think serious musical study was suitable for a young woman."

Erik is incredulous at this. "Your father the virtuoso?"

Blandine nodded. "Even so. Maestro Franck came to Papa's house and had very stern words with him, but Papa was implacable. No life for a decent girl."

"You must hate him for it." Erik's eyes, usually a striking bluish-green, begin to give off a heated golden glow. Hate is something the young man knows very well.

Blandine shakes her head in disagreement. "He wasn't wrong; it is a very hard life for a woman. But I'm taking a lesson from him. I intend to create my own circle of artists, writers, composers, just as he has done."

Erik nods in understanding. "You will be the _doyenne_ of your own salon. Famous and esteemed. A much better revenge."

"And you will be the first among equals if you will please get that arm up! Now, hold the bow as I showed you…"

Erik begins the Gypsy tune again with a reinvigorated fury. Now, as he holds the violin properly upon his shoulder, as his bowing arm can extend to the limit of its power, he fills the room with the knife-like melody. _Create my own circle…first among artists… _the heady words swirl in the young man's thoughts even as he makes the tune spin and dance.

_I will create my own world of art and music and beauty if this one will not give me what I want._

The arched casements of the windows that overlook the Tuileries Palace are deeply set into the façade of the Ollivier home. The window ledges are generously deep. There is a presence, a dark shadow at a window. A latch lifts. The heavy velvet curtains contain the sudden breeze as the window slips open for a moment, then closes again just as quickly.

The room is dimly lit. Erik is here, in her boudoir. Not even really sure why he felt compelled to steal in like a thief. He can still feel the pressure of her hand on his arm correcting his bow technique. Straightening his posture. _I'm worried about Blandine. She seems tired._ He wants to make sure she is well and safe tonight. He is protecting her.

That is what he keeps telling himself.

Blandine emerges from her dressing room. She wears a soft nightgown of quilted cotton lawn. It is warm enough for an April night, but still beguilingly feminine. Her hair cascades past her shoulders in long, rippling waves. Blandine rubs her back a little, and the soft curve of her belly protrudes slightly. She leans over the tiny lamp on her bedside table and lengthens the wick. Warm, golden light pools in a halo around the young woman's figure. Blandine carefully steps up on the footstool and gets into the high tester bed. As she settles in and becomes comfortable, she picks up the novel she has been reading and finds her place again.

_She's fine. I should go._ Erik knows that he is doing something unforgivable if he is caught, but he can't seem to make his body stir from his hiding place. He keeps his breathing inaudible, slowly pulling in the oxygen, until he is soundless, weightless, almost a ghost instead of a young man made of flesh and blood. Blandine's hair spills over the pillowcase and reflects the lamp's gentle light. _If I were her husband, I would never let her sleep alone,_ he muses.

The heavy door that connects Blandine's room to Ollivier's creaks as it swings open. A substantial man of forty, his hair silvered but thick, pads into the room. He wears a nightshirt, yet still manages to convey an air of gravity. The man comes to Blandine's side and leans over to give her a kiss. She puts her novel down and clasps her hands around his neck.

"How are you feeling?" Ollivier smoothes a stray lock of hair from Blandine's brow. "You seemed a little tired at dinner."

"Better, now that you're here with me," Blandine replies with a smile. She pats the blankets companionably. "Are you coming to bed?"

Erik is panicking. He can hear a surging, pounding rhythm in his ears. Every fiber of his being is screaming for him to get out of the room at once. But it is impossible to move a muscle without possibly drawing attention to himself.

Ollivier sits down by Blandine's side. "I must discuss something with you, but you will not like it. I am concerned about the amount of time you are spending with this protégée of yours."

Blandine furrows her brow at this. "I don't understand what you mean, Emile."

Erik's heart leaps into his throat. _If he finds me, he'll think Blandine has been betraying him with me. Another man, in her bedroom…_Erik desperately begins to sidle closer to the window he came in by, moving muscle by muscle so as to create no sound.

Ollivier continues, "This stonemason you have taken up, are you sure he has talent? I don't want you to be embarrassed in front of your father." Ollivier bows his head a little. "I think I should have reinstated your lessons after our marriage."

Blandine caresses Ollivier's cheek lightly. "Oh sweetheart, it wouldn't do for a statesman's wife to be gadding about on the stage. I am happy to take the best part from my mother and my father. My mother's salon was good enough for you to meet me, right? Who knows what miracles we can create together?"

Ollivier nods at this. He slides his hand over Blandine's rounded belly and lets it rest there. "We've already created enough of a miracle for me. If it means so much to you, keep your mason. But I warn you, the staff doesn't like him."

Blandine tosses her head at this. "They couldn't understand. He's an artist who has just been given the gift of sight. A dancer who has just had his legs unbound. Just wait until you hear him play, Emile!"

Erik hears the heavy linen coverlid slide back as Ollivier joins Blandine in the big bed. _She believes in my playing. Despite my face,_ he marvels. The window is closer than ever–just a few more inches and he will be able to make his escape.

Ollivier takes Blandine in his arms. "You know the niceties of your music are lost upon me." He burrows his head into the crook of Blandine's throat. "Have you given any more thought to what you wish to name that beautiful little girl you're carrying?"

Blandine tosses her head back, clearly enjoying Ollivier's tiny kisses. "It's a boy. And I still want the name I told you. It's important."

"All right." Ollivier's kisses become more insistent. Erik can hear the shifting of weight as the big bed creaks. Finally, he feels his hand upon the window's latch.

"And I want you to try to stay in town more. I don't want to have the baby all by myself," Blandine manages to get out before Ollivier's mouth covers hers.

"Mm hmm."

The sudden rush of a cold night breeze is not felt by the couple entwined in their marital embrace. Just as quickly, it is gone. A shadow flits over the face of the building, and is seen no more.


	4. Chapter 4

Le Cadeau Chapter 4

_The wine is not right. It will contrast with the soup. _The young woman makes another circuit around her table, straightening the flatware a millimeter to the left. _The flowers look wrong. They're at the point of wilting._ She brushes the lilies with her hands, impervious to the petals' delicious softness or their delicate scent. _The lamb will be tough. Where is everyone, anyway?_ Blandine gives a tiny shudder of anxiety as she awaits her dinner guests.

A light tap on the dining room door breaks the mood. Erik stands in the doorway, a little hesitant to enter. Blandine takes one look at the slender young man and nods in satisfaction.

"Come here and let me see you. Turn around. Yes, the tailor did very well."

Erik shyly models the evening clothes for Blandine's approval. Until last week, the suit had hung in the back of Emile Ollivier's closet, a reminder of his younger, slimmer days. Blandine gives each detail her full attention, and then smiles. The new mask was Erik's own request from the tailor, made of a shimmering fine white silk that contrasts dramatically with the deep black of his garments.

"You look quite distinguished. Formal dress suits you," Blandine pronounces.

Erik drops his eyes, unaccustomed to compliments of such a personal nature. "Thank you, Mme. Blandine. I will do my best to make you proud of me tonight."

"Just remember what I taught you, and you will fit in perfectly," the young matron replies. She absentmindedly rubs her back and lets out a moan under her breath. The child has grown noticeably in the past few weeks and Blandine feels pain whenever she stands on her left leg. Erik feels a stab of worry pierce his own nervous tension. _She has worked so hard for this day. I must not let her down._

Blandine checks the watch that hangs from her chatelaine. "Twenty minutes until they are to arrive. I think I shall go mad."

"Then allow me to attempt to calm you, Madame." Erik gestures for Blandine to follow him into the salon. The room has by now been completely restored. The gleaming walls of robins' egg-blue contrast sweetly with the delicate ivory wainscoting of the perimeter. The Ollivier family portraits look down from their gilded frames. The magnificent grand piano has been newly tuned and polished in preparation for the night's entertainment.

Erik sits at the piano and raises his hands to the keyboard. Blandine allows herself to settle onto one of the gilt chairs in anticipation. The lulling strains of Erik's _berceuse_ float gently upon the evening air and fill the house with sweetness for a moment. Blandine inhales deeply. Music is the best thing to calm her these days, and Erik's playing touches a little place inside her soul that nothing else can reach.

The song dies away as Erik looks upon the tranquil face of his tutor. She smiles for a moment, but the insistent ringing of the doorbell dispels it.

"They are arriving! Erik, come and be introduced."

Erik fights off a transitory flash of panic as he rises from the keyboard. "Of course, Mme. Blandine." Erik steels himself as he follows Blandine through the hallways to the foyer. _They are musicians, like you. Just like you._ Although every nerve in his system is telling him to withdraw, Erik draws himself up straight and tall. He will make her proud of him.

The heavy front door opens. A young woman who bears a remarkable resemblance to Blandine makes her way inside. She has her arm through the arm of a striking older man, and she leans toward him a little. A younger man brings up the rear, weighted down with a large package and a pot containing a live Easter lily. The young woman disengages and throws her arms around Blandine's shoulders.

"Look at my beautiful sister, full of expectation! Oh Richard, she is glowing, is she not?" Blandine embraces her younger sister for a heartfelt moment. It is clear that she has tender feelings for this headstrong girl. Blandine pulls away reluctantly, remembering her training as Ollivier comes down the long stairway to welcome his guests.

The clatter of a carriage draws Blandine's attention. "That will be Papa!" she exclaims as she dashes out the door to the portico. She inadvertently nudges the heavy clay pot and sends the unfortunate bearer reeling.

Erik rushes to the side of the man bearing the gifts as he totters and threatens to spill his burden. He takes the large plant and sets it down upon the marble floor. Under his breath, he whispers, "I'll take care of these. Go round to the back and Madame Portager will make sure you get some supper."

The man looks at Erik with a combination of indignation and horror. He splutters, "I'm the husband! Cosima's husband, Hans Von Bülow!" Cosima and the older man turn around simultaneously and begin to snicker. Ollivier steps in, unwilling to allow Erik to become an object of derision.

"I am remiss in my introductions tonight. Allow me to formally introduce Blandine's music student, our guest, Erik…LaFosse."

As Erik draws himself up and makes his bow, he reflects, _LaFosse–it's very somber, but I like it._ The younger man he has so recently insulted extends his hand in friendship.

"A music student? Well then, all's forgiven. Please, call me Hans. Allow me to present my lovely wife, Cosima." Von Bülow pumps Erik's hand with the forcefulness of one who is desperate to be liked. Cosima allows her hand to be encased in Erik's two large ones as he makes a deep bow to her. The older man utters a little "Hmmph" in anticipation.

Ollivier steps in smoothly. "Of course, where are my manners? We are fortunate to have the great composer Richard Wagner grace us with his presence." The older man preens a little. Ollivier continues, "What a pity that your dear wife Minna is indisposed."

At the mention of the absent lady's name, Wagner's eyes narrow. Cosima notices the composer's displeasure and begins to expostulate when the front door swings open again. A tall, unusually handsome man, with silvered hair swept back from a noble brow enters as a radiant Blandine leads the way. Ollivier throws his arms around the older man and warmly busses both his cheeks.

"Papa Liszt, welcome back to our home! It has been too long." Liszt tolerantly pats Ollivier upon his back at this outpouring of emotion and waits to be unhanded. Blandine notices Erik making himself inconspicuous in the corner and leads her father over to the shy teenager.

"Papa, this is the young man I wrote to you about. My music student, Erik, in whom I have great hopes."

_This is it,_ Erik gulps to himself. He clicks his heels together and makes a deep formal bow to the composer. As Liszt returns the courtesy, Erik struggles for a second to remember the first word of his speech. _Oh, yes._

"Mester Liszt ez egy becsület -hoz csinál -a ismeretség. Ön egy nagy belélegzés -hoz egy szerény zene hallgató." (Maestro Liszt, it is an honor to make your acquaintance. You are a great inspiration to a humble music student.)

Liszt cocks his head in surprise to hear his native Hungarian spoken so fluently. Yet something bothers him. "Ön egy cigány fiú," (You are a gypsy boy,) he retorts.

Erik is unnerved by this. Quickly, he protests, "…n nem egy Cigány." (I am not a Gypsy.)

Liszt now takes a closer measure of this young man, the only one in the room tall enough to look him in the eye. Dubiously, the composer continues, "Ön beszél -val egy Cigány hangsúly." (You speak with a Romany accent.)

Erik is about to continue his protest when Blandine intercedes. "Gentlemen, I am sure you could tell one another stories in my father's native tongue all evening, but then our dinner would become cold! Papa, will you escort me?"

Once again, etiquette smoothes over awkwardness as the elder man gives Blandine his arm. Ollivier, greatly relieved, places Cosima's arm upon his own and proceeds to the dining room. Richard Wagner stiffly follows, clearly annoyed at not being given precedence in this gathering. Hans Von Bülow catches Erik's eye for a moment and shakes his head, bemused at the intrigue of it all.

Dinner is an informal, almost homey affair. While the table shines with all the Ollivier silver, and beautifully decorated blown-out Easter eggs adorn each place setting like jewels, the service is carried out by Blandine and Cosima, who serve their father and the guests in deferential Hungarian fashion. The lamb is fork tender, garnished by bowls of fresh greens and accompanied by egg noodles made with spinach to echo the tones of the new spring. The conversation flows in fits and starts; lively when the subject is music, and more stilted when Ollivier attempts to turn the subject to the political climate of the day.

At last, Blandine rings for the maid Jeanne Marie to come in and clear away the dishes. As Blandine and Cosima retire to the salon, the men rise to follow Ollivier into his study for brandy and cigars. Erik pauses for a moment, unsure whether he is invited into Ollivier's inner sanctum. But a quick nod of acknowledgement from his host is all Erik needs to seize upon the opportunity to congress with the men.

Ollivier's study is actually quite familiar to Erik–he has regularly been plundering his host's library almost from the time of his arrival in the Ollivier household. Books on engineering, mathematics and architecture line the paneled walls of the study, perfumed with the scent of old cognac and fine tobacco. Erik gratefully accepts a snifter of brandy as the men make themselves comfortable. Wagner, of course, usurps Ollivier's personal high-backed wing chair, so the host has no choice but to stand.

After the initial interchanges about the age of Ollivier's brandy and the quality of his Cuban cigars, a silence falls over the men. There is much that must remain unsaid if the evening is to be continued, especially as it pertains to the extreme familiarity between Richard Wagner and the lively Cosima, who is kin to almost every other man in the room. Finally, Liszt turns to Ollivier and gruffly inquires, "So, son, will it be the diplomatic corps for you? Are you angling for an ambassadorship that will take you far away?"

Ollivier shakes his head genially. "No, Papa Liszt, I fear I should never succeed at diplomacy. I wish to help reform France right here, right in that monster of an edifice across the street," as he gestures with his cigar toward the window, through which the Tuileries Palace can be seen.

Richard Wagner snorts loudly over his brandy. "Good luck to you, my foolish friend! It is ridiculous to believe that the French will ever change themselves into a civilized nation. They are too Latinate, too hot-blooded. The Southern character is inherently disordered. Reform will have to be imposed from without, not within."

As Ollivier turns red-faced at this attack, Von Bülow steps in to change the subject. "LaFosse, tell us, how did you come to study with our dear Madame Ollivier?"

Erik clears his throat, conscious of every eye upon him. "Madame Ollivier heard me playing her piano and offered to give me lessons. She is a very generous, merciful lady." He casts his eyes to the floor. "I cannot ever begin to repay her kindness."

Liszt muses upon this. "I would not usually characterize my daughter in those terms. Willful, determined and intelligent, yes. My son was always the gentle one."

Ollivier takes another sip of his brandy. "Your daughter is a remarkable person, Papa Liszt."

Wagner lets out another snort. "You are remarkable too, to let your wife move a young music lover who wears his _Fasching_ mask forty days too late under your roof when you are gone so frequently. I must say, you're very trusting, not to wonder about their repertoire."

Erik is shocked. He blurts out, more loudly than he should, "Shut your trap! Madame is a fine lady! I should knock your tongue out of your mouth." He struggles to rise to his feet, but Liszt's muscular, bony hand restrains him.

"Nyugodt önmaga" (Calm yourself). In French, the composer continues, "My old friend Wagner has a wicked sense of humor. People who know him do not take his teasing seriously." Liszt turns to Ollivier and nods, "Do you think my girls are ready for us to rejoin them? I think we could all do with some music."

Ollivier is coldly furious at the deep insult he has just sustained from Wagner. Wordlessly, he opens the door to the study and gestures for the men to follow him. As they file out Erik feels the knot on the ribbon holding his mask give way. It slips off and flutters to the floor.

As Erik desperately grabs at the scrap of satin, his eyes lock with those of Liszt. The composer takes in the reality of Erik's deformity; the scarred, red ridges of tissue that gnarl one side of his face and twist his eye and nose into a painful rictus. Yet there is no condemnation in Liszt's visage, but great compassion.

"What happened to you, my son?" he whispers to the frightened teenager.

"I was cursed by God," the young man replies as he hastily re-ties the mask to his skull.

"God does not levy such curses. Come, Erik. Will you play something for me?"

Erik nods a mute assent as they hasten to catch the others.

The raised voices of the ladies can be heard before the door to the salon opens. Erik's acutely sensitive hearing allows him to pick out the differing timbres of Blandine and Cosima's discourse. He hears Cosima protest, "…I have to follow my heart! He is a musical god, like no one else before or since…"

Erik hears Blandine give an exasperated groan. "…you will disgrace us all and subject us to gossip once again! What's the matter with Hans…"

As Ollivier opens the salon door, the two women immediately fall silent. Von Bülow notices the stormy looks passing between the sisters, but says nothing as he seats himself at the piano. Blandine sits by her husband and motions for Erik to pull up one of the gilt side chairs. She leans over and whispers in Erik's ear, "My brother-in-law is a fine conductor. He loves to champion new talent."

Von Bülow nods to himself as he chooses what he will play. "In honor of spring, an arrangement of the "Trout Quintet" for piano, by Schubert," he announces rather formally.

Von Bülow is not a masterful pianist, and the lilting melody is played perhaps a hair under tempo, but the charming tune fills the room with its sunny chords anyway. As Von Bülow concludes the final measures of the first movement, Liszt generously begins to clap, joined by Ollivier, Blandine and Cosima, and Erik. Wagner ostentatiously pauses for a moment before adding a few feeble claps of his own.

Von Bülow rises from the piano and bows a little, clearly happy to have the experience over with. Cosima looks over at Wagner expectantly. He shakes his head at her and looks away.

She begins to wheedle, "Richard, play us something too. Perhaps the ballet from "Tannhäuser?" Please?"

Wagner grunts. "My muse has deserted me. I'm gutted."

Cosima screws up her face. "For me? Please?"

"Enough, Cosima!" Blandine snaps. "If the man doesn't want to play, we won't force him. Not while there are those who most certainly can." She turns and catches Erik's eye. Quietly, she speaks to him. "Are you prepared?"

Erik rises to his feet. "Yes, Mme. Ollivier." His hands start to shake and his fingers feel numb and prickly as he walks what seems to be a kilometer from his chair to the piano. As he looks down at the ebony and ivory keys, he announces in a quiet tone, "This is my own composition."

Chords chime like bells, and a sweeping series of scales ascend, then die away as Erik opens his mouth and begins to sing as he plays.

**For thee, my angel, for thee I tune my lyre;  
With Heavenly song thou dost my soul inspire.  
What other name with rapture fills my mind?  
No other song, no other path, I find.  
It is thy look that makes my darkness light;  
It is thine image makes my dreams so bright. **

Fearless I walk through shades, my thoughts with thine,  
Far from thine eyes celestial glories shine.  
Thy gentle prayer my destiny shall keep,  
And safely watch me should mine angel sleep.  
When thy voice soft, yet proud, my heart doth thrill,  
It sends me forth life's duties to fulfill.

The song concludes with an extended reiteration of the main theme, and then diminishes into the same chiming chords of the introduction, but now peaceful and serene. The effect is that of coming through a fierce summer storm, only to have the sun peer out brilliantly once more and set a rainbow in the sky.

Erik looks up from the keyboard. There is silence in the room. Blandine is perfectly motionless, but there are tears rolling down her cheeks.

_Was it good? Have I ruined everything?_ Erik's mind begins to race wildly. _I'll pack my things and leave--she won't have to tell me_–when Liszt gets to his feet and begins to clap. All the others join in, even as Wagner's scowl deepens. Erik remembers what Blandine has instructed him to do and gets up from the piano. With one hand resting on the instrument, he makes a formal bow to the company.

Liszt comes to Erik's side. The older man puts his arm around the teenager's shoulders and embraces him warmly. "How long have you been studying, my boy?" he inquires with wonder in his voice. Erik is too stunned and relieved to reply, so Blandine answers for him.

"Four months, Papa. He couldn't read music when he came to us. You should hear him play his violin!" The pride and affection in Blandine's voice is unmistakable. Erik feels a little woozy and idly thinks for a fleeting moment that he must be drunk on Ollivier's brandy when Von Bülow comes up and claps him on the back heartily.

"Wonderful, LaFosse! We shall have you placed in the Paris Conservatoire at once!" the conductor burbles with excitement.

"Nonsense! The only place to nurture talent is Leipzig!" Wagner growls from across the room.

Liszt takes up one of Erik's long, slender hands. "He reminds me of our poor Fréderic Chopin. The same hands–you can span a twelfth, can't you?" Erik mutely nods as Liszt holds the young man's hand up in comparison to his own.

Von Bülow pipes up again, eager to lay claim to this new find. "We must obtain a patron for you at once! I know the Conte de--"

At last, Erik finds his voice. "Thank you! It is too much…but please…I would rather continue to study with Mme. Ollivier if she will still permit me." He looks to his tutor with desperation–he had expected every possibility except success.

"Of course, Erik. For as long as you wish," Blandine replies, touched by the young man's loyalty. She feels the baby kick inside her, hard, as she leads Erik back to his seat. "Papa, won't you give us something too? Something beautiful?"

Liszt settles himself at the piano. "I am no singer," he begins, "but this is one of my favorite pieces. I wrote it for your mother, girls." The virtuoso breathes in for a long moment, hearing the music, feeling it travel through his nerves and synapses. He raises his hands and begins his "Liebestraum."

As the music fills the salon, each heart in turn is touched in some way, by longing or envy, by simple wonderment and enjoyment, and for Blandine, a sense of joy and triumph. The news of her protégée will be all over Paris within the week. Her protégée, her salon, her own name. All is going as she had hoped.

Erik is completely transported by the power, the delicacy and the fluidity of Liszt's playing. He can only think one phrase over and over as he thrills to the magnificent music: _I made her proud of me. I made her proud._

Notes:  
The lyrics to Erik's song are from a poem by **Victor Hugo**, with some minor changes.  
Fosse -- grave, pit, stone, tank


	5. Chapter 5

Le Cadeau Chapter 5

Late July 1862

The interior of the small theater is stifling. Even though the house remains quite dark, with only odd shafts of sunlight illuminating the stage and a single candle for the _repeteur_, the nine vocal students are panting with the heat from this unusually warm day in July. They lounge on the velvet seats like odalisques in a Turkish bath. However, their vocal coach, the formidable Madame Pauline Viardot, will have none of it.

"Get up, all of you! I should make you sing the sextet from "Don Giovanni!" she yowls. "Singers are spoiled, lazy creatures these days! Believe me, we never had the luxury of lolling about when I was on the stage."

Mme. Viardot clatters down from the stage, leaving a surprised Erik seated behind the piano. He has been working as an accompanist for the renowned voice teacher since Easter. The arrangement has worked out to both their satisfactions—Erik has been able to leave the physical labor of masonry behind and Mme. Viardot has been astonished to obtain such a fine player for her students' lessons.

Mme. Viardot can trace her musical pedigree from her father, the Spanish tenor and vocal coach Manuel Garcia, who had studied with the great composer Gioacchino Rossini. She is not willing to accept mediocrity at any time.

A cherub-faced tenor plaintively cajoles the Madame, "Please, can't we wait until the sun is lower? I feel like my flesh is melting away in this Purgatory…" He gives a charming pout, too, one that usually works on older ladies.

"Baldinito, you must be able to sing in all conditions. Dreadful heat, piercing cold or thunderstorms—it doesn't matter. You are here to serve the music. I only mean to prepare you for anything." Mme. Viardot's eagle eye looks over this latest batch of fledglings. _Pitiful_, she thinks to herself, _the only real musician is the one at the keyboard_.

A young soprano gets up from her seat and saunters toward Mme. Viardot. "I am ready for anything," she chirps arrogantly. The girl proffers her sheet music portfolio to the bemused teacher.

Mme. Viardot flips through the shiny, crisp pages. "Lucia's mad scene—no, "Qui la Voce?" child, you'll kill us all… "Senta's Dream," are you mad? Don't you have something suitable for the soubrette you clearly are?"

The soprano pouts and turns to an aria in the back of the portfolio, one that is well worn and thoroughly marked. She silently hands it to Mme. Viardot. The teacher nods in approval and hands the music back to the girl. With assurance, Mme. Viardot turns to the other students and announces her selection.

"Chacun le sait, chacun le dit" from "La Fille Du Regiment" by Donizetti. An excellent choice for a young singer—something she actually has a chance of being hired for! Now hop up on the stage and let us hear you, Mademoiselle…" Here the teacher is at a momentary loss—the young woman has only recently arrived from Seville and has not yet begun to study intensively with Mme. Viardot.

"Carlotta, madame."

A beam of sunlight knifes through the dim atmosphere of the theater as the lobby doors are opened. A woman carefully picks her way down the aisle to join Mme. Viardot. She taps the music teacher on the shoulder and the older woman wheels around, startled.

Mme. Viardot breaks into a brilliant, toothy grin as she recognizes her visitor.

"Blandine D'Agoult Liszt! Or should I say, Madame Ollivier? Look at you," Mme. Viardot crows as she embraces Blandine. Then, the voice teacher pulls back in surprise. "My God, child, do you mean to have your baby here? You should be at home!"

Blandine laughs nervously. "I know, I'm foolish, but I had to see how my own pupil was coming along. He will never boast about himself, you know. Has he played you any of his compositions?"

Mme. Viardot shakes her head. "I had no idea he composed. Here, sit down. We are about to have a little Donizetti." She motions to the soprano on the stage. "We are ready for you, mademoiselle."

The young soprano hands the sheet music to Erik. As she draws near enough to discern his mask, she gives a little gasp and backs away. Erik regards the girl coolly as he looks over the music. He softly inquires, "In this key, mademoiselle, or do you require a transposition?"

The soprano cocks her head arrogantly as she retorts, "I assure you, I have all the high notes necessary." She strides to the middle of the stage, finds a patch of sunlight to sing in, and nods to Erik to begin.

After the initial chords, the aria begins with a cadenza fashioned to echo a bugle call, with repeated staccato high A's. As the soprano attacks the vocal line, she manages two high A's on pitch, two flat, and one so sharp that it is practically a B flat.

"Oh, dear," Blandine whispers to Mme. Viardot. The vocal coach reflexively puts a finger to her lips and keeps listening.

Erik begins the measures of the aria itself. The young woman struts and gestures as she sings the saucy phrases of the melody, a song introducing Marie, an orphan girl who has been collectively raised from infancy by the 21st Infantry Regiment. The soprano poses, she smiles coquettishly, she winks; she does almost everything except put together two coherent musical phrases at a time. And yet…the voice is large. The kind of voice that can cut through heavy orchestration without strain. The girl herself has a certain undeniable charisma, too. Neither Mme. Viardot nor Blandine can turn away from her.

Mme. Viardot sinks into her seat and steeples her hands. "Sweet suffering Christ," she moans, mostly to herself, "it's a voice."

Blandine echoes her, "It's a voice?"

Mme. Viardot nods, "It's a voice and five years' work to get it under control. At least." She clears her throat and calls out to the young woman. "Take it from 'Il est la' in the first verse, but this time, just stand still and sing it for me. No dancing, please."

The soprano snorts, "Your accompanist is throwing me off. He plays too slowly!" She turns toward Erik and boldly snaps her fingers at him. "Like this! A tempo¡por favor!"

A little gasp arises from the other students. Erik icily nods, and gives the pitch for the soprano to begin. He has learned from Mme. Viardot that when a singer is struggling with an aria, the _repeteur_ should slow down until the singer can manage the phrases. But if Mademoiselle wants it fast…

"Il est la, il est la, il est la, morbleu!" As the soprano finishes the first phrase, Erik is well into the second, She gasps a breath, and tries to catch up.

"La voila, la voila, la voila, corbleu!" By this time, Erik is two measures ahead. She skips to the end of the verse to catch him, but he has already played the final chords, leaving her singing an off-key phrase in solitary splendor. She closes her mouth in mortification. Erik stands up from the piano, takes three long strides toward the soprano, and snaps his fingers under her nose.

"A tempo, mademoiselle, s'il vous plait." he mutters in a voice only she can hear, and then stalks down the stairwell to join Blandine in the audience.

Mme. Viardot has many years of experience behind her to assist her in keeping a straight face, yet she still struggles to maintain a professional air after this display.

She calls out to the soprano, "Two things I always tell my students; never annoy the people who touch your food, and never, ever vex your accompanist." Blandine muffles her laughter in a handkerchief at this. Mme. Viardot continues, "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You have learned enough for today."

As the abashed students shuffle through the aisle toward the lobby, Blandine draws a large envelope from her reticule and hands it to Mme. Viardot. With just a trace of nervous anticipation, Blandine shyly declares, "I really hope that you will be able to join us. It will be such an honor."

Mme. Viardot breaks the seal on the creamy vellum and scans the invitation. "A musicale in September! I would be delighted, Blandine, but will you be recovered enough to entertain?"

"I don't see why not. My mother was holding her salons three weeks after giving birth to each of us. She was famous for breastfeeding while my father would play the piano."

"I remember," Mme. Viardot chuckles.

Erik does a double take at this revelation, a reaction which does not go unnoticed by the women. Blandine laughs a little as she sees the young man blush.

"Oh, calm down, I have no intention of emulating that practice. But I do wish to establish my own salon. Erik will debut his songs, and if you want to introduce one of your singers…" Blandine's eyes shine with excitement and anticipation at this prospect.

"Hmm," the voice teacher muses, "The plump tenor you saw might be sufficiently house-broken by that time…Are your songs for tenor voice, Monsieur LaFosse?"

"They can be." Erik mind begins to race at the prospect of his songs being formally presented. The image of beautifully bound sheet music, ornate covers bearing his name featured in the windows of the music shops…_it could be the beginning of a dream_, he thinks.

Suddenly, all of Erik's attention is seized by Blandine. She turns deathly white and begins to crumple. As Mme. Viardot lets out a little cry, Erik takes hold of the young woman so that she does not fall to the ground. With a single movement, he takes her in his arms and carries her to a chaise in the theater's lobby.

As Erik rubs Blandine's wrists, he barks at Mme. Viardot, "Find the carriage. Get the driver to come in here and help me." The two musicians look down at Blandine's hands to see that her fingers are grotesquely swollen, almost purple with distension.

"She needs a doctor, Erik," Mme. Viardot gasps.

"Do you have a good physician?" he asks, while desperately trying to revive the young mother-to-be. "Monsieur Ollivier is out of town, in Montpellier, and I don't know who the family uses."

"I will go to him myself. This looks serious, Erik. Get her home." The older woman moves quickly to the street. Erik can hear her trained voice echo through the thoroughfare, summoning Blandine's driver. The horses' hooves clatter on the cobblestones as the coachman pulls up as close as possible to the theater door.

Blandine weakly protests as Erik and the driver pick her up and carry her to the carriage. As they lay her inside the compartment, Erik instructs the driver to go quickly but carefully. "Take the main roads—she must not be jostled or shaken more than can be helped." Erik climbs inside the compartment and tucks a blanket against Blandine's side, keeping her firmly in place on the carriage bench. He claps his hand on the side of the carriage. "Drive on!" he shouts.

As the carriage sways, Erik keeps his eyes fixed on Blandine's ashen face. Her brow is damp with perspiration and she seems to labor for each breath. There is fear in her eyes as she reaches for Erik's hand.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" the young woman whispers.

"Not at all! You will rest and you will feel much better." Erik tries his best to force confidence and assurance into his voice, but Blandine can tell it is false bravado.

"Will you stay with me? Emile is so far away…I asked him not to…" Blandine's eyes roll up into her head as she faints again. In panic, Erik leans his head out the carriage window.

"Go faster, man! Like all the demons of Hell are chasing you!"

Jeanne Marie screams when the front door of the Ollivier mansion bursts open. Erik and the coachman struggle to gently carry Blandine up the stairs to her boudoir. Erik shouts out orders to the frightened girl as they ascend with their precious burden.

"Send a telegram to Monsieur Ollivier—tell him he must return at once! Then fetch the midwife and make her come back with you—no excuses!"

Jeanne Marie is rooted to the floor, in shock.

Erik roars at her. "Move, you goose!"

The girl finally rouses. "Shall I send for the priest, too?"

Erik snarls, "No one is dying today."

"But to baptize the baby…"

The men are at the top of the stairs. Erik calls out over his shoulder, "Fine. But send the telegram and get the midwife first."

As the men place Blandine on the bed, Erik pulls out what little money he has in his pocket. "Go with Jeanne Marie and make sure she comes back with the midwife. Stop for nothing." The driver stolidly nods and departs.

As Erik removes Blandine's shoes, he sees that her ankles are also dreadfully swollen. _The child is poisoning her system. She must give birth or perish_, he realizes with horror.

Blandine becomes somewhat conscious as she reacts to Erik's touch. She shudders a little, and then opens her eyes fully.

"You are home, Madame. Be calm, I am here." Erik stands at Blandine's bedside, a little unsure of what to do next.

Blandine's eyes sweep around the room. She tries to sit up, but her strength fails her. Weakly, she lifts one hand and points to the ornate wardrobe that stands against the wall.

"Erik, open the wardrobe for me. There's a trunk…take it out, please…"

"Madame Blandine, this can wait--"

"No, it can't! Get out my trunk. I want to show you something."

Erik does as Blandine bids him and opens the heavy mahogany doors of the wardrobe. At the very back of the closet stands a battered trunk. He lifts it out and carries it to the side of the bed so that Blandine can see it clearly.

"Open it," she commands in a voice that is barely a whisper.

As he unlatches the brass fittings, he hears Blandine begin to softly weep. "Please, Blandine, don't cry," Erik pleads in a shaky voice. "You will have your little baby, and your salon, and I will sing for you. All will be well."

"Erik, listen to me closely. I want to tell you about Daniel."


	6. Chapter 6

Le Cadeau Chapter 6

Blandine struggles to sit up a little higher in the bed, so Erik props a pillow behind her back. It seems to take all of Blandine's ebbing strength to keep her eyes open. She motions for Erik to lift up the heavy lid of the trunk.

The fittings are stiff with long disuse, but finally, the top swings open. Erik looks into the chest to find a portrait gazing up at him; a teenage boy with soft blue eyes and blond hair that curls gently around the nape of his neck. Blandine feebly stretches out her hand to receive the picture.

"Give him to me," she breathes. Erik carefully lifts it from the trunk and hands it to Blandine. With infinite tenderness, she clasps it to her breast for a moment, and then turns it so that Erik may have a better look.

"This," Blandine states simply, "is my Daniel." She becomes so still, with half-lidded eyes and shallow breaths, that Erik fears that she has fainted again. However, Blandine comes back from her reverie and looks at her worried student with a smile.

"I think—it's clear—you must have loved him very much," Erik stammers. He is unsure how to proceed. _Is this her first love? Could this be the child's true father?_ Erik thinks in fleeting, panicked flashes. He does not wish to cross Blandine's wishes, yet he would not compromise her modesty for the world…

"My love for Daniel was the purest, most fulfilling love that I have ever known. Do you not see it, Erik?" She pushes the portrait closer to the young musician.

"See what, Madame?" Erik looks again at the boy who stares up mutely at him from the gilt frame.

"Our resemblance! Daniel was my brother, my little brother. My little love."

Comprehension floods through Erik as he finally perceives the same Roman nose, the same Hungarian tilt of the eyes and the cheekbones. _The missing member of the family_, he thinks. _I see it now._

"Where is your Daniel?" Erik whispers to Blandine, although he already suspects the answer.

"He is with the angels. Daniel cut himself while sharpening his quill…such a little cut…but it festered…and blood poisoning set in. Papa held him in his arms for hours after the life left him. We were all mad with grief."

Erik swallows hard. The lump in his throat is the size of a boulder, and he struggles for words. As he casts his eyes to the trunk again, he can make out the remnants of a young boy's life—a rubber ball, a hoop, a few books, a bird's nest…

Blandine finds a little more strength to reach for Erik's hand. He draws the back of his hand over his eyes in a futile attempt to conceal the tears shining in them, then clasps her cold hand in his.

She whispers with more urgency, "Daniel was only thirteen years old when we lost him. But, Erik, you and he would have been the same age! With you, I was able to experience that pure, joyful love of music again. The joy of giving to someone again!"

"Madame, it is you who have given--"

"Listen to me! This is the gift you gave me, and it is only right that I be allowed to give you something in return. There is a parcel in the bottom of the trunk. Take it out."

Blandine watches as Erik carefully moves the trunk's contents to reveal a lovingly wrapped case. Its distinctive shape and handle tell Erik what it is before he removes the linen shrouding it.

"Open it, Erik." Blandine commands with just a hint of her old authority.

The layers of cloth give way to a polished case with fine brass fittings. The latches snap open to reveal a beautiful rosewood violin, Italian in origin, with a satiny lacquered surface and an exquisite pernambucco and mother of pearl bow. Erik takes the instrument from its fitted case and thrills at its perfect balance and proportion. He turns it over to admire the flawless curve of the flamed back when his eye is drawn to the ebony tailpiece. In a childish scrawl, he can read the name 'Daniel'.

"I want you to have it, Erik." Blandine collapses back into the pillows, exhausted by her efforts.

Erik shakes his head and backs away, even as he cradles the violin in his arms. "No, Blandine. I am not worthy of such a gift."

"Your music makes you worthy." Blandine whispers.

Erik's head is reeling. He protests, to himself more than to the prone woman on the bed, "You don't understand! I'm nothing, a throwaway. Fit for the shadows, nothing more. I don't deserve your kindness, Blandine."

"No," Blandine replies. "I don't accept that!" Flashes of her old fire dart from Blandine's eyes. She reaches for Erik and he at once is kneeling by her bedside.

Blandine gasps, "Promise me that you will use the gift. Promise me that someday, you will teach another to live in music. You have to promise me, Erik!"

"I promise," he brokenly vows. His mask is now wet with tears as Blandine's hand gently caresses Erik's face.

A sharp knock on the door breaks the moment. Jeanne Marie opens the door to usher the midwife in. The old woman takes one look at the scene and shudders with dread at the sight of the young man whose shoulders tremble with his sobs.

"Is that the husband?" she asks of Jeanne Marie.

"Lord, no, that's Madame's freak," the resentful maid replies, quite sure that her insolence will have no repercussions today.

Erik is rooted to a chair directly outside Blandine's boudoir. The midwife has called for boiling water, clean rags and cognac to calm her nerves. Jeanne Marie has been pressed into service to assist the midwife and has rushed from the room twice to empty the contents of her stomach. Every once in a while, a weak cry or moan can be heard.

Finally, the doctor arrives in his morning coat and silk tie. Erik allows himself a modicum of hope as the man of science enters the bedroom. A few moments pass, and the door opens once again. The doctor wipes his hands with a large silk handkerchief as he prepares to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?" Erik asks with astonishment.

"My boy, it's quite hopeless. Terrible shame, of course." The doctor turns to go, only to feel himself lifted bodily by the masked man.

"You get back in there and help her, or by God, you will not see the sunrise," Erik growls with a feral intensity that even he did not know he possessed. He flings the door open and pushes the doctor back inside, then re-assumes his tormented vigil.

The sun sinks in the west, but the sultry heat keeps its hold on Paris. Erik lifts his head as he hears footfalls on the stairway. _Please, let it be her husband, _Erik silently prays. A Jesuit priest in a sweat stained cassock labors to climb the final stairs. Erik can only point to the door in despair.

As the priest opens the door, the plaintive cry of a baby can be heard. Erik dashes inside with the Jesuit, to see the midwife cleaning a tiny infant. It is a boy, puny and weak, but alive. The doctor huddles in a corner of the room, still fearful of the strange young man in the mask.

"The child is alive—you should be satisfied," the physician calls out as he makes a bolt for the door. Erik makes no move to stop him, for all his attention is fixed upon the still, ashen figure in the middle of the bed. The Jesuit bends over her and anoints her with chrism as he swiftly pronounces the last rites.

The midwife weeps as she swaddles the little boy. "I did everything I could for her, sir. She told us to save the child, and we did. Please, sir--"

"Don't let him die, or I'll kill you" Erik says without emotion. Blandine is almost completely motionless. Only the slightest fluttering of her eyelids indicates that she still lives.

The Jesuit leaves Blandine's side. "My son, let us have no talk of killing. What name should I baptize the child with?"

"Ask his father, I don't know." Erik's mind is foggy now, unable to accept all that has happened. _How can she be so still_, he ponders. _She looks like an ivory carving_.

"There is no time. We should baptize the baby at once," the Jesuit insists.

The midwife chimes in, "It strengthens a baby to have a name."

Finally, Erik comprehends what the priest is asking him. "Call the child Daniel, for her brother. She will like that."

The Jesuit motions for the midwife to follow him from the bedroom with the mewling infant. Erik kneels at Blandine's bedside and wipes her brow with a clean cloth. With a mighty effort, Blandine opens her eyes to see her pupil again.

"Baby?" she asks in a faint whisper.

"A beautiful little boy. He looks like Emile." Erik tries to smile, but his resolve fails him.

"Where…Emile?"

"He's coming, Blandine. He's just so far away. You have to wait for him." Erik ducks his head so that Blandine will not see the fresh tears welling in his eyes.

"Sing to me, Erik. Please." This is requested so softly that Erik almost thinks it is coming from inside his head. With a shaky voice, he begins to sing the berceuse that Blandine is so fond of:

**Sleep now, sleep little lamb**

**The sky is heavy with stars**

**Sleep so close to your dam**

**Sleep in peace, little lamb.**

**Sleep now, child of my heart**

**Angels will keep you safe**

**Sleep will not keep us apart,**

**Sleep now, child of my heart.**

As Erik sings the ultimate phrase, he hears a deep, agonal breath escape from Blandine's white lips. And she is still. So still.

A warm rain fell at dawn, leaving the grass in the cemetery soaked with the moisture. As the summer sun rises, the water condenses and turns to mist that hangs between the tombs and headstones. The solemn funeral procession that will bring Blandine to her final rest emerges from the fog as if from a dream; the casket drawn by a single black horse, followed by Emile Ollivier, numbed as an automaton, a hysterical Cosima borne up by a grey-faced Hans Von Bülow, and Franz Liszt, bowed and weeping, slowly pushing the wheeled chair that holds his old love, the Countess Marie D'Agoult.

The D'Agoult family tomb has been opened to receive yet another member this morning. As a priest swings the incenser and sprinkles his holy water at the doorway, Liszt's sensitive ears pick up an unexpected counterpoint to the Latin ritual. He raises his eyes to see a tall, thin figure on a hill a little distance from the tomb. The man has a violin tucked under his chin, and the strains of Liszt's "Liebestraum" float down to the mourners like a benediction of a different sort. The grieving virtuoso takes comfort in the lyrical lines, and recognizes the timbre of the instrument as one he thought he would never hear again. _What a gift_, the stricken composer thinks, _what a beautiful, fitting gift_.

After the rose-covered casket is placed in the tomb, next to the smaller white one that had been the most recent addition, the mourners slowly embrace and disperse. Liszt carefully ascends the hill where the young masked man awaits. He does not walk quickly; his grief weighs too heavily on him and he feels as though he has aged ten years overnight.

Erik has replaced the violin into its fitted case and offers it to the older man. Liszt waves his hand in refusal. "No, Erik. I believe my daughter did the right thing in giving it to you. An instrument must be played, after all."

They stand together for a time. Erik keeps stealing glances at the tomb in shock and disbelief. Finally, Liszt is the one to break the silence.

"I have so many things to thank you for, Erik."

"Thank me, sir?" _I am cursed and I brought my curse upon her_, Erik thinks with despair.

"She wasn't alone…someone…you were with her when she…" The older man's voice falters at this and he sobs without shame for a moment. "And you made sure there was a priest, so I have no fear that my Blandine is in Heaven with her brother."

"I have no doubt that she is in Heaven, sir, as sure as I am in Hell!" Erik replies in a strangled voice. His eyes meet the composer's reddened ones to again find complete compassion and understanding.

"Do not despair, my son. Where will you go from here?" Liszt inquires with real concern.

"I must leave Paris. Too much of my heart is in the ground right now. Perhaps if I go to the ends of the earth, I will be able to outrun this pain." Erik turns from the virtuoso at this and doubles over with sorrow. At this moment, he is no more than a devastated youth who desperately needs to weep.

Liszt puts his arm around the young man's shoulders and lets the sobs rack his body. When it seems as though Erik has no more tears to shed, Liszt embraces him and puts the violin back into his hands.

With great emotion, the composer reverts back to his native Hungarian. "Nem elhagy tehetségetek, az én -m Cigány fiú." (Do not abandon your talent, my Gypsy son)

Erik holds the violin close to his chest as he replies, "I never can. It is a gift she gave me. It is a gift that I will carry with me all my days."

**FIN**


End file.
